Feet And Hands. Part 2

Description

Feet And Hands. Part 2

To a man who thinks, it is very interesting to observe that beasts
have been led along gradually in the very same direction. All the
common beasts, such as cats, dogs, rats, stoats, and so on, have five
ordinary toes. On the hind feet there may be only four. But as soon as
we come to those that feed on grass and leaves, standing or walking
all the while, we find that the feet are shod with hoofs instead of
being tipped with claws. First the five toes, though clubbed together,
have each a separate hoof, as in the elephant; then the hippopotamus
follows with four toes, and the rhinoceros with practically
three. These beasts are all clodhoppers, and their feet are hobnailed
boots. The more active deer and all cattle keep only two toes for
practical purposes, though stumps of two more remain. Finally, the
horse gathers all its foot into one boot, and becomes the champion
runner of the world.

It is not without significance that this degeneracy of the feet
goes with a decline in the brain, whether as cause or effect I will
not pretend to know. These hoofed beasts have shallow natures and live
shallow lives. They eat what is spread by Nature before their noses,
have no homes, and do nothing but feed and fight with each other. The
elephant is a notable exception, but then the nose of the elephant,
becoming a hand, has redeemed its mind. As for the horse, whatever its
admirers may say, it is just a great ass. There is a lesson in all
this: "from him that hath not shall be taken even that which he
hath."

There is another dull beast which, from the point of view of the
mere systematist, seems as far removed from those that wear hoofs as
it could be, but the philosopher, considering the point at which it
has arrived, rather than the route by which it got there, will class
it with them, for its idea of life is just theirs turned
topsy-turvy. The nails of the sloth, instead of being hammered into
hoofs on the hard ground, have grown long and curved, like those of a
caged bird, and become hooks by which it can hang, without effort, in
the midst of the leaves on which it feeds. A minimum of intellect is
required for such an existence, and the sloth has lost any superfluous
brain that it may have had, as well as two, or even three, of its five
toes.

To return to those birds and beasts with standard feet, I find that
the first outside purpose for which they find them serviceable is to
scratch themselves. This is a universal need. But a foot is handy in
many other ways. A hen and chickens, getting into my garden,
transferred a whole flower-bed to the walk in half an hour. Yet a bird
trying to do anything with its foot is like a man putting on his socks
standing, and birds as a race have turned their feet to very little
account outside of their original purpose. Such a simple thing as
holding down its food with one foot scarcely occurs to an ordinary
bird. A hen will pull about a cabbage leaf and shake it in the hope
that a small piece may come away, but it never enters her head to put
her foot on it. In this and other matters the parrot stands apart, and
also the hawk, eagle, and owl; but these are not ordinary birds.

Beasts, having twice as many feet as birds, have learned to apply
them to many uses. They dig with them, hold down their food with them,
fondle their children with them, paw their friends, and scratch their
enemies. One does more of one thing and another of another, and the
feet soon show the effects of the occupation, the claws first, then
the muscles, and even the bones dwindling by disuse, or waxing stout
and strong. Then the joy of doing what it can do well impels the beast
further on the same path, and its offspring after it.

And this leads at last to specialism. The Indian black bear is a
"handy man," like the British Tar—good all round. Its great soft
paw is a very serviceable tool and weapon, armed with claws which will
take the face off a man or grub up a root with equal ease. When a
black bear has found an ant-hill it takes but a few minutes to tear up
the hard, cemented clay and lay the deep galleries bare; then, putting
its gutta-percha muzzle to the mouth of each, it draws such a blast of
air through them that the industrious labourers are sucked into its
gullet in drifts. Afterwards it digs right down to the royal chamber,
licks up the bloated queen, and goes its way.

But there is another worker in the same mine which does not go to
work this way. The ant-eater found fat termites so satisfying that it
left all other things and devoted its life to the exploiting of
anthills, and now it has no rival at that business, but it is fit for
nothing else. Its awkward digging tools will not allow it to put the
sole of its foot to the ground, so it has to double them under and
hobble about like a Chinese lady. It has no teeth, and stupidity is
the most prominent feature of its character. It has become that poor
thing, a man of one idea.

But the bear is like a sign-post at a parting of the ways. If you
compare a brown bear with the black Indian, or sloth bear, as it is
sometimes called, you may detect a small but pregnant difference. When
the former walks, its claws are lifted, so that their points do not
touch the ground. Why? I have no information, but I know that it is
not content with a vegetarian diet, like its black relative, but
hankers after sheep and goats, and I guess that its murderous thoughts
flow down its nerves to those keen claws. It reminds me of a man
clenching his fist unconsciously when he thinks of the liar who has
slandered him.